


A Cold Frosty Morning

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [6]
Category: Sherlock TV
Genre: Brave Watson, Case, M/M, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Truths are revealed on the road to London.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 39
Kudos: 112





	A Cold Frosty Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Холодное морозное утро](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28216878) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> A bit later than usual, but RL is catching up with me. I am trying to stay on schedule, however. And I hope to catch up on comments soon as well! As always, I hope you enjoy this tidbit with our Victorian boys.

Past three a clock and a  
Cold, frosty morning.

-Traditional

It was not an engaging case, but it had come from Mycroft and my brother can be insistent at times. Luckily, his pockets are deep, as well, and sometimes that is sufficient motivation to do his biding. In recent days, I had begun to think of a most specific future and a man must have funds to set up things properly. [Although I am quite sure that my brother would sneer at the idea of my interest in doing anything ‘properly’.] At any rate, all of that meant that my Boswell and I had spent two long and tedious days on the south coast dealing with a minor government minister and his duplicitous French mistress. Dull. At least, up until the point when she produced the tiny, but deadly ruby-studded pistol from her reticule and threatened to shoot Watson.

He had been to war, of course and spent a long time following in my wake, so Watson was not greatly intimidated by a woman and her pistol, no matter how dangerous each of them was, so he handled the situation admirably. Ever the gentleman, of course, even when he was swiftly and efficiently disarming a lady.

Unfortunately, Mycroft’s cases always devolve into endless details and the tying up of loose ends, so it was hours after Watson’s heroics before the entire dreary affair finally drew to a close. We could have spent the few hours left of the night back in the hotel, of course, but both of us preferred to make for London and home. We were in luck, because Mycroft’s carriage was waiting [he has his uses], so after a quick stop to collect our luggage, we were on the road.

It was bitterly cold, but we were well-bundled under several fur carriage rugs, sharing the heat of our bodies, so it was quite tolerable for the long ride through the frosty morning. Setting off, we chatted briefly about the finished case, but the mundane details quickly bored us both. It did not seem likely to produce a tale worthy of my friend’s literary efforts, so quickly a comfortable silence fell. I was very aware of our proximity, of his shoulder where it pressed into mine. Of his powerful thigh so near to my own. I gave some thought to taking his hand, under cover of the blankets.

Previous to my thought becoming action, however, my brave Watson made the move and encased my gloved fingers in his hand.

Neither of us spoke for a time. I watched the gelid landscape pass by in the approaching grey dawn and it brought a memory to mind. We did not often speak of my time away naturally, although I had related a few incidents to Watson when the mood was right. Before I actually decided whether or not to speak on this occasion, the words came.

“I passed some time in Canada,” I began. “To sustain myself while I looked for the villain, Newman, I worked in a factory that printed and bound books.” 

“That sounds interesting,” Watson said carefully.

“It was not intolerable. The country was cold and icy. But what brings it to mind now is a little mystery I worked on at the time.”

He squeezed my fingers. “Holmes will be Holmes. Were you brilliant?”

A deer, awake far too early, appeared briefly by the road and then disappeared into the trees again. I sighed before continuing. “I solved the mystery, but...” The carriage jolted at the rough patch of road and we were thrown even closer together. When the vehicle righted, we did not move apart.

“A young Frenchman, one of the artisans who created the book covers, had heard that I was, as he put it, ‘a bit clever’, so he came to me one morning on our tea break. His... _ami particulier_ , a Canadian fellow, had gone missing and he was quite concerned.” I paused, remembering his anguished face, the fear in his clear blue eyes as he told me his story. “They had met at art college and soon took rooms together. He managed to smile just a bit as he related how they had soon fitted their lives together, although they were rather slow to realise the depths of their feelings for one another.” I paused, wondering if Watson might have some comment on the subject, but he simply squeezed my fingers again, so I continued. “Emile said that his friend, Paul, had taken a trip home to his family’s farm, but had not returned when expected.”

“This story does not end happily, does it?” Watson said, looking down at our linked hands under the rug, rather than at me directly.

“No, my dear boy, it does not. Foolishly, Paul had let it be known that he was forming an attachment in the city and even more foolishly, after several pints at the local public house, that said attachment was for another young man. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, his uneducated brothers did not approve. When he refused their demands to return home and marry, violence erupted. Paul died, although the family claimed it had been an accident and I could not prove otherwise.”

“Those poor lads,” Watson said with a sigh.

“Emile much regretted the time they had wasted.” I could not be more plain than that, could I?

Watson was rubbing my fingers slowly. “Time spent with someone of whom you are fond is never wasted, Holmes.” Then he smiled in the dim light of the dawn that leaked into the carriage. “Although sometimes we Englishmen can be a bit too reticent.”

I agreed with a hum.

There was an interval, where the only sound was that of the carriage wheels against the frozen pavement. Then Watson—my soldier, the dis-armer of dangerous French women with deadly pistols—took action. Nothing too dramatic, as he is still an English gentleman, of course.

He merely lifted our still-linked hands out from under the warmth of the fur rug and brought them to his mouth. He kissed my fingers.

He kissed my fingers.

**


End file.
